


not quite the same story

by tryslora



Series: 1000 follower celebration [8]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Baking, Bitty in the NHL, Checking Practice, Falconers, First Kiss, Hockey, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 12:06:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5584810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bitty has a plan for his life, and it includes hockey until he graduates but he’s not sure how it’ll fit in after that. Then the Falconers come looking for him, and Bitty has to wonder if maybe the Falconers are exactly what he needs. Or maybe, really, all he needs is Jack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not quite the same story

**Author's Note:**

> This is the eighth of my fills for my prompts for my 1000 follower celebration on Tumblr. This one comes from icedkaner: "Bitty makes it to the nhl. I just realized that you need to know the fandom and pairing lol, it's check please! And bitty/jack. Thank you so so much and happy holidays." Happy holidays to you as well! I went a little sideways from the prompt, but in the end, it is about Bitty and the NHL and of course, about Jack and Bitty together. I hope you like this!

Eric Bittle has a simple plan for his life: graduate while completing a thesis on the food culture of the American South (1900-1950, inclusive), publish his first cookbook by the age of 25 (preferably sooner), and spend his days baking. He doesn’t think much about what kind of work he’ll do as a day job, assuming he’ll find a place in a bakery so that he can do what he loves for money while still leaving time to do the research he’s come to love for writing.

His plan includes hockey while he’s at Samwell. He wants to lead (co-lead, with his co-captain Chris Chow) the team to the finals, the Frozen Four, and the championship, of course, but he doesn’t really think about it as an option past that moment. Maybe he’ll coach hockey for kids. Maybe he’ll go back to figure skating, or just work at a rink. There will be plenty of opportunities to stay involved with skating somehow.

He doesn’t expect Georgia Martin to be standing there when he skates off the ice after Samwell wins the championship, waiting to intercept him. He doesn’t expect that her first words will be, “You haven’t returned my calls.”

He blinks in some confusion. “I didn’t know you’d been calling, ma’am. I’d never be that impolite.”

They manage to sort it out—somehow she had the wrong number, off by one simple digit, and Bitty isn’t sure how she got his number in the first place until halfway through the conversation when he realizes who she is. And where she’s from. His throat goes tight and for just a moment, he can’t breathe at all.

“Are you okay?” Georgia pats his back gently, and Bitty manages to hitch a small breath into his lungs.

“Goodness. Yes. I’m fine. I just… why is it that you’re here?” Because Bitty worries sometimes, and it’s been months since he’s heard from Jack more than a quick _eat more protein_ or _good game_. He gets the occasional encouraging tweet replying to his constant stream on Twitter, but he’s never sure if that’s _Jack_ or just a PR person helping him out. And now that Georgia’s here, he has to wonder if something’s wrong, if this is some strange way of informing Jack’s Samwell family that there’s a problem, and Bitty’s been elected as head of household by virtue of being co-captain. “Should I get Chowder?”

Georgia’s smile is easy and open as she gestures for Bitty to follow her. He waves to Chowder before he leaves the team and goes with her to the empty loading dock nearby. If this is about Jack, Bitty figures this is the best place to have this conversation, in the semi-darkness and within the echoing sort of place where Jack always seems to go to work things out.

“I wanted to make sure to get in touch with you before another team gets the chance,” Georgia says as soon as they’re sitting down. “Someone’s going to try to snap you up, and I want to make sure you consider the Falconers as a top choice.”

Bitty blinks at her. “There isn’t something wrong with Jack?”

She laughs, and he wonders what she sees in his face when her expression goes gentle and she reaches out to touch his hand. “There’s nothing wrong with Jack. He’s a brilliant player, and so are you. You’ve come into your own these last two years, and I remember how well you played on the same line as Jack. I want that for the Falconers. He’s already led us to the Cup once, and I think that if you join the team as well, the Falconers will become an unbeatable powerhouse.”

Bitty doesn’t know what to say. What to think. This was never in his plan, never even a possibility. “I’m too short,” he says quietly, and he can see the amusement in her gaze.

“Eric Bittle, you’re not too anything, other than possibly too fast on the ice,” she says solemnly. “I want you to think about it. Come down and join us for a practice—either observing or on the ice. I want you to see what the Falconers and Providence have to offer you. Just consider it.” She holds out a card, and Eric looks at it, bends it slightly with how hard he’s holding on to it.

“You’ve got my email,” she says. “And my number. Feel free to contact me any time with questions, and if you want to visit, let me know and I’ll make arrangements. You won’t have to worry about paying for anything.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” His voice sounds small to his ears, far away and remote. He wonders if she can hear the way his heart is hammering in his chest, even harder than when he avoided that check on the way to his final goal of his Samwell career just a half hour ago. “I’ll let you know.”

He stands when she does, and he walks out with her, politely making certain that she makes it back into the well-lit parts of the arena before he turns and heads to the locker room. He walks into a raucous celebration where he’s picked up and slapped on the back, spun around until he laughs with his teammates, taking their chirps about having to fend off fans like the champion he now is.

Eric Bittle never intended for hockey to be his profession, never even though it could be. And now here’s a chance for him to keep playing, and in Providence of all places.

Georgia Martin doesn’t need to show him what the Falconers have to offer; Bitty already knows the answer.

They have Jack.

#

_I talked to Georgia_.

Bitty hesitates for a moment before he sends the text. It’s been a week since the championship, and while he did get a congratulations from Jack, he’s disappointed that Jack didn’t show up at the Haus for the celebration kegster. Hoslter and Ransom had made it a personal goal to not only visit, but drink more than everyone before crashing out on the sofa in a tangle of limbs. Shitty and Lardo drove out together from Cambridge, bringing really old whiskey and really good homebrew. Even Johnson had swung by to offer strange advice ( _just follow the plot, Bitty, follow the plot_ ) and hang out for a while.

Somehow Bitty always thought that when (if) Samwell won the championship, Jack would be there celebrating with them. But Jack’s been pulling further and further away from the Haus in the last two years, and lately Bitty wonders if he really remembers them at all.

_Are you coming_?

His phone vibrates with the text, and Bitty blinks at the screen, surprised by the directness of the question. He texts back _Should I?_ before he can reconsider, then closes his eyes and breathes through the anxiety that washes over him.

There’s no reply right away, which doesn’t help.

Bitty leaves his phone on the bed and goes down to the kitchen, digging out flour and butter and sugar, finding his favorite rolling pin. He’s up to his elbows in crust—two are already parbaking in the oven, while he works on a third to fill with a new apple-peach-cranberry blend he’s been working on—when Chowder walks in, Bitty’s phone in hand.

“It keeps ringing,” Chowder says, looking for a flour-free place to set it before deciding to just hold it out to Bitty.

Bitty wipes his hands on his apron, takes the phone carefully and realizes that he’s missed four phone calls, each one five minutes after the last.

From Jack.

_Oh_.

He opens up messaging, figuring he must have missed something but there’s nothing there after the last one he sent. He types _baking_ and presses send, then assures Chowder that he’ll take care of it and apologizes for the ringer waking him.

Chowder gives him a look like he might be worried, and Bitty smiles because there’s no reason to worry. No reason at all. Just because he feels like his entire life is falling apart around him doesn’t mean that Bitty won’t be just fine in the end.

The phone vibrates and the first text through is just a smiling emoji, followed quickly by another text that says _call me when you’re not covered in flour_.

Bitty’s heart clenches and he sends _I will_ before he sets the phone down and ignores it in favor of finishing up the pies. He has the fruit pie in the oven and the two parbaked shells cooling on the counter when he finally picks up the phone and stares at it for a long moment.

He could wait even longer. He could wait until the pie is out of the oven, and until the two shells are cooled enough for him to make a filling and get them into the fridge. He could wait.

Or he could just call Jack back and ask why now, why he’s suddenly talking to Bitty again.

He switches to the phone application and presses the screen to dial.

“Bittle.” Jack picks up like he’s been waiting, and Bitty’s heart thumps at the familiarity of his voice.

“I missed you.” And oh lord, that isn’t at all what Bitty meant to say, the words falling into silence from the other side of the phone. “I mean, we haven’t spoken much lately.”

“I’ve been busy.” Jack goes silent and when Bitty can’t figure out what else to say, Jack offers slowly, “I missed you, too. I should have texted. You know I’m not good with that.”

Bitty knows. He knows that the fact that Jack responds to his tweets is a minor miracle, even if it is a PR person doing it for him. He knows that every text is a bit of communication that someone else doesn’t receive, and he finds himself nodding at the phone, keeping it cradled close to his ears. “I know. But it’s hard to keep sending texts when I don’t know if you want me to,” he says quietly. “I thought we were friends.”

He stopped wishing they were more long ago, or at least he tells himself that. That’s a mountain that’s not his to climb, and Bitty knows that, and he tries, oh lord he tries, to remind himself of it regularly.

“We are.” There’s a rustling noise. “Georgia wants to know when you’re coming to visit.”

“Georgia wants to know.” Bitty’s voice is bitter with disappointment. He wonders if there’s something between Georgia and Jack, if something’s struck between them like sparks.

“You’ll be staying with me,” Jack continues as if Bitty didn’t say a word. “We’re in the middle of playoffs, but you’re still welcome to come. Unless you’d rather wait until the season is over. It’ll be quieter then, but Georgia wants you to come down and work with us before another team comes in to talk to you.”

No one else has talked to Bitty, although he wonders if someone might. He wonders if there are other teams looking at his record and thinking that a too-small but fast skater might be a valid addition to the team.

“I’d like it if you came sooner.” Jack’s voice is quiet, and Bitty’s heart skitters again.

“Thursday,” Bitty says. “I’ll come down Thursday morning.”

“Good.”

Bitty tries to read into the single word, tries to tease out an emotion but he can’t find it, can’t be sure if Jack’s glad for himself or glad because it’ll make Georgia happy. The timer on the oven starts ringing, and he jumps a little at the sound. “Jack—”

“I hear it.” There’s a chuckle in Jack’s voice, making it light. “Go get the pie, Bittle. I’ll text you directions and see you Thursday.”

Bitty lets the phone fall silent, refrains from mentioning that he’s been to Jack’s place once more than a year ago, when the whole of the Samwell team at the time took a trip down to watch a game and make Jack have a housewarming. He hasn’t lost the directions, hasn’t forgotten how to get to that part of Providence. But he hasn’t been invited to go again, either.

Until now.

The pie is hot and smells fantastic, and it disappears from the kitchen long before it cools. That’s all right, because Bitty’s going to need space in the fridge to make a maple apple pie, which he puts a _DO NOT EAT_ sticker on and no one dares touch it. Bitty’s sure they all know it’s meant for Jack, and he’s thankful that not a single one of his teammates comments on it.

#

Bitty’s little Toyota has over a hundred thousand miles on it, but it’s serviceable and he bought it last summer with his own savings. Admittedly, he didn’t take it out much during the winter—goodness, he’ll never get the hang of driving in the snow—but it’s been nice to be able to travel when he wants to.

When he’d first started saving for a car, he’d had visions of the team taking trips down to Providence for games, but then conversations had gone silent so he’d just let it lie. It was nice enough to be able to get to a Stop & Shop without a violent nickname, or occasionally to the mall.

Aside from the trip up from Georgia (he’d flown home for Christmas—he wasn’t going to risk a snowstorm trapping him in the south), the trip from Samwell to Providence is the longest he’s made on his own in the car. He follows the directions carefully, pulls into the tiny driveway behind a car he assumes belongs to Jack, and just sits there, trying to remember how to breathe.

He can’t just sit in the car forever, and the door hasn’t opened yet, so Bitty obviously needs to make the first move. He takes his phone off the charger and Beyonce’s voice fades into silence as the music stops. He sends one quick text of _I’m here_ and then climbs out of the car.

He has his gear in the trunk and figures it can stay there for now. He needs his duffle with clothes and toiletries, and he opens the cooler to take out the pie Chowder had stashed in there for him earlier, while helping him carry things out to the car.

There’s a purple sticky note on top of the wrap that says _You can do this_ and Bitty flushes to see Chowder’s handwriting. He’s lucky to have one of the best friends a boy could want, and he makes a mental note to thank Chowder once he’s home. Because right now Bitty needs all the encouragement he can get.

He hears the crack of a door and creak of hinges, and Bitty looks over to see Jack standing there in the doorway. And _oh lord_ , he looks good. Same as ever, but with the first hints of playoff scruff and wearing shorts that show off his toned calves, and Bitty could just about melt.

Forget everything he said about ignoring his past crush on Jack Zimmermann. All it takes is one visit and Bitty’s flushed and warm from the thought of it, and praying to get through the weekend without embarrassing himself.

Jack takes a step forward, and Bitty sets the pie and his bag down without thinking. It only takes a few quick steps for Bitty to cross the lawn, meeting Jack halfway, and then Bitty leaps forward, tackling Jack in a hard hug, arms wrapped around him, hanging from his taller height and lifted by the way that Jack’s arms tighten around him in return. Bitty buries his face against Jack’s neck, not wanting Jack to see his expression or the way tears well up in the corners of his eyes.

“Oh dear lord, I’ve missed you so much.” Bitty whispers the words, hopes Jack doesn’t actually hear them or the emotion behind him, and he’s thankful when Jack’s hold goes tighter rather than dropping him.

He has to let go eventually, sliding to the ground and stepping back, cheeks bright red and warm against the cool spring air. “I brought pie,” he says, and Jack smiles at that.

“Of course you did,” Jack replies, and he helps Bitty carry his things in.

They have pie in the kitchen, where Bitty sits on the counter and is able to look Jack in the eye as they speak, and it’s like going back in time two years. It’s just enough to make Bitty’s heart ache.

#

Bitty watches the first half of practice. He has his bag sitting next to him, and he has one hand on his stick. He itches to be on the ice in ways he never expected to, but at the same time, he sees how college hockey is nothing like the NFL. These boys are fighting to win, reaching for a second try at the Stanley Cup, and they are brutal. Bitty winces when he sees Jack take a rough check, and he leans forward, making sure that Jack is okay.

Bitty will never like checking, no matter how long he plays. He might not faint anymore—all thanks to Jack—but he’d rather just be out of the way. One concussion was enough, thank you very much.

They take a break and Jack skates over to Bitty, motions for him to come out on the ice. He takes him around, keeps one hand on his shoulder as he introduces him to the rest of the Falconers, and Bitty apologizes for not bringing pie.

“There’s flour and butter at the house,” Jack says, and Bitty flashes a look at him, surprised and grateful and itching to bake.

“Well then, Mr. Zimmermann, you’ll just have to help me bake enough to bring tomorrow,” he says, and the guys laugh, looking at Jack who has a faint pink tinge to his cheekbones. It’s a good look on him, red from the cold on the ice, and Bitty could just watch him all day.

“Are you ready to skate?” someone asks, and Bitty tries to remember his name and comes up empty. He’ll learn it eventually, it’s only polite, but for now he just nods.

Bitty’s a little terrified about this, but at the same time, it’s impossible to watch and not want to be on the ice with them. He skates back to get the rest of his gear on and check his skate’s laces, then grabs his stick. It stands out from the others, with the Samwell painted on the side, but it works for him.

He’s never skated with the Falconers, but he can’t forget how to skate with Jack. They’re on the same line for this practice, and they fall back into habits like Jack was never gone. Bitty skates better now, has more control over how to fit his footwork into his game, and Jack catches up quickly. The coaches have them running small scrimmages, and Bitty and Jack find their way into goal after goal, surprising the defense with how well they read each other, and using the way that Bitty darts between people to their advantage.

“You work well together,” number three says, clapping Bitty on the shoulder, and Bitty flushes, because yes, they do and they always did.

Bitty isn’t sure if they’re auditioning for him, or if he’s auditioning for the Falconers, but he’s sure it went well. The team seems pleased by how well Bitty fits in, and Bitty enjoys the day. Jack compliments him on how well he moves now—Holster was right, they really could make a play out of Bitty’s spin, and Bitty uses it to his advantage. By the time the day is over, Bitty has to admit that he could see himself here with this team, playing hockey after he graduates.

It’s funny how the worldview changes sometimes.

Only some of it has to do with Jack.

#

He’s lived with Jack before, across the hall in the Haus for a year. They’ve seen each other in various states of undress. But there’s something about Jack now that is different from Jack then. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s gone from best ass in the ECAC to best ass in the entire NHL. Maybe it’s the beginning of the playoff scruff darkening Jack’s chin, or the fact that when Jack walks around shirtless, his abs are even better than before.

It’s enough to drive Bitty absolutely around the bend, and he tugs on his t-shirt, wishing it were long enough to cover more of his boxers, before he ventures down the hall to find the bathroom and get ready for bed.

Where Jack is bent over the sink, brushing his teeth with the door open.

Bitty stops in the doorway, swallows hard. “I’ll come back,” he says, but Jack motions him into the small bathroom and Bitty cautiously edges into the room.

Jack sits on the edge of the tub while Bitty goes through his nightly routine of face wash, moisturizer, floss and brushing teeth. “It felt good playing with you again,” Jack says, and Bitty gives him a round-eyed _look_.

“Who are you and what have you done with Jack Zimmermann?” he says fondly. “Look at you, talking.”

Jack makes a face, huffs a sigh. “I know, it’s my fault that we lost touch,” he says. “It’s not going to happen again, Bittle.”

“Eric,” Bitty says. “It’s Bittle on the ice, but when we’re off, we’re friends. Call me Eric, or Bitty if you’d rather, but when you call me Bittle it’s like I expect to be waking up at five in the morning for checking practice.”

A small hint of a smile flickers at the corner of Jack’s mouth. “Do you miss it? Eric?”

Oh lord, hearing his name drop like that, with such _purpose_ , from Jack’s lips; it’s enough to make the blood rush south. Bitty inhales swiftly, drops his head and counts to three. “Being checked into the boards isn’t my favorite thing, no, but I’ve always appreciated the way you worked with me. Wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t.”

“You’re a good player on your own,” Jack says, and the compliment floods Bitty with warmth. “And I didn’t check you into the boards. Barely pushed you some days.”

There’s a flicker in Jack’s eye when Bitty glances at him, and his heart beats just a bit faster. “Are you saying you liked pushing me up against the wall?” It sounds dangerously like flirting, but Jack hasn’t run yet. “Might be we could have checking practice again if I do sign with the Falconers.”

“Might,” Jack agrees. He gets up and he has a loose-limbed grace that seems different from what Bitty remembers, as if the last two years have shook the tension from his bones. Jack touches Bitty’s shoulder on the way by; his hand drifts across the middle of Bitty’s back before he pulls away. “I’ve got breakfast planned for the morning,” he says. “With plenty of protein.”

“I’ve got more muscle than it looks like,” Bitty protests, because he’s still small but he’s wiry and strong.

Jack’s gaze drifts down to where Bitty’s legs are exposed, and Bitty swears Jack checks out his ass. “You do. But you could always use more protein.”

Bitty’s mouth goes dry when Jack meets his gaze then turns away, heading to his own room. Oh lord, that really did sound like flirting. Jack couldn’t flirt by accident, could he?

He asks Chowder the question, and gets back a bewildered series of question marks followed almost immediately by a series of exclamation points, and Bitty has to rush to assure him that nothing’s happened.

Although he wants it to, very much.

#

By the time Friday ends, Bitty aches from head to toe. He starts the morning in the weight room with the Falconers, then sits through a meeting with the press, hiding off to one side and watching as Jack awkwardly fields questions and hands them off to the captain.

His team has a real chance at the Cup, and Bitty’s surprised to realize that he’s thinking of the Falconers like that. Like they’re _his_ team. He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with the idea that his subconscious has gone and made a decision that important without consulting him.

They move from press to ice, and this time Bitty spends the entire time with them. And he still doesn’t like checking. He manages to escape the bulk of it, surprising them with his moves, but he still gets hit occasionally. And one time Jack skates into him deliberately, traps Bitty against the boards and looks down at him until Bitty’s legs give out and he forgets how to skate, ending up on the ice in an inelegant sprawl.

At least he’s conscious, and no one’s laughing. Much.

Jack ends the day with an invitation to the team to come to his place on Saturday, and Bitty can read their expressions, can tell that if this isn’t the first time Jack’s done that, it’s rare enough to be a surprise. Jack makes sure to tell everyone to bring their families, that they’ll do a pot luck, and he’ll get the grill started.

“You’re a good influence on him,” Georgia says softly, leaning into Bitty. She’s taller than him, which takes some getting used to, but then, most folks seem to be taller than Bitty. He blinks at her, and she nudges his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Rumor has it there might be pie.”

“Oh lord, yes, of course there will be.” Which is when it occurs to Bitty that Jack isn’t hosting a party this weekend, but Jack and _Bitty_ will be hosting a party together. In Jack’s home. His mouth goes dry, hangs open a bit and he looks at Georgia, who grins back at him like she knows exactly where his mind has gone.

“Like I said, you’re good for him. And what’s good for Jack Zimmermann is good for my team.” She pats his shoulder. “Just keep thinking about it, Bitty. I’ll keep hoping you sign before graduation.”

#

Bitty starts baking as soon as they get home. He bakes past when Jack goes to bed, and he’s still cooking in the morning, laying out enough food for an army and then some. When Jack points out that the rest of the team will be bringing contributions, Bitty reaches up to place one fingertip against Jack’s mouth. “You shut your mouth, Jack Zimmermann. This is your party and I won’t be risking that even one person might be hungry when it’s done.”

Jack laughs and rolls up his sleeves, knocking into Bitty as they work side by side and Bitty shows him what needs to be done.

It’s a bit like playing house, and it’s terrifyingly confusing. Jack makes sure to introduce Bitty to all the team wives, and in one case, an older gentleman who Bitty swears is number fourteen’s partner, but the words are never quite said. Throughout it all, Jack stays by Bitty’s side, his fingers occasionally brushing against Bitty’s back.

Of course, the party’s a success. The pies disappear, the way pies do, and Bitty sends pictures of the food back to the Samwell group chat. When he tweets a selfie with the Falconers behind him, his Twitter feed explodes with responses ranging from questions about why he’s with the Falconers for the weekend to Shitty telling him to remind Jack to get the steaks off the grill before they burn.

Bitty ignores it all in favor of taking more pictures of himself with the team, including one selfie with Georgia, and another with both her and Jack. His favorite image of the day, though, is when Georgia steals his phone and takes a series of snaps while Jack is telling Bitty a story, his expression intense and hands fluid as he describes the action on the ice. Bitty looks at the pictures and sees his heart in his own eyes, and if he imagines just a little, he can pretend he sees hearts in Jack’s eyes as well.

“Where was your camera?” he asks Jack, once everyone else is gone and they’re cleaning up at night.

“I thought about bringing it out,” Jack admits. “But I decided that I wanted to see what I was missing, instead of looking through the lens.”

The words sound significant, as it someone said them to Jack once, and Bitty frowns, wondering where it came from. Then Jack passes by him, drags a hand across his shoulder, and Bitty’s helpless to do anything but follow him inside.

He finds Jack in the kitchen washing up. Most of the dishes go straight into the dishwasher, and Bitty takes care of throwing out the paper plates and plastic utensils that are scattered about, then takes up a towel to dry the few handwash items. It’s domestic and comfortable, and Bitty keeps darting looks at Jack like there’s something else coming. Something else that ought to be said.

As Jack rinses out the dishcloth and carefully hangs it up to dry, Bitty can’t quite manage silence any longer.

“Jack.”

Jack turns to look at him, frowning, the word yes lilting off his lips.

“Why am I here?” Bitty twists the towel in his hands, gives it up when Jack tugs it away to place it over a door handle. “I mean, I know Georgia wants to lure me into the Falconers, but why am I _here_? I could’ve stayed in a hotel.”

“I wanted you to stay here.” Jack reaches for Bitty, touches his face for just a moment, thumb sliding along Bitty’s jaw. “I told you. I missed you.”

Bitty’s mouth opens and he closes his eyes, risks turning his head toward Jack’s hand. He catches Jack’s thumb between his lips, nips at it, flicks his tongue over his skin, and he hears the soft rush of breath in response. “Jack,” he says softly, and then hands cradle Bitty’s head, lifts him just enough for Jack to lean in, press his lips to Bitty’s.

Jack’s beard is too short to be anything but rough against Bitty’s fair skin. He doesn’t care. He slides his arms up and loops his hands behinds Jack’s head, sways towards him and luxuriates in the kiss. Jack tastes like beer and steak and potatoes, with a strong rush of sweet apple pie, and Bitty can’t imagine anything better.

Jack’s hands slide down Bitty’s back, tugging him closer, and Bitty goes up on his toes to fit better to Jack, to curl in close.

It’s absolute bliss.

“Eric,” Jack whispers against his mouth, and Bitty kisses him again just for that before he lets himself fall back to flat feet, too small to reach Jack again easily.

“Number fourteen had a partner,” Bitty says cautiously. “Is he out?”

“Edwards,” Jack clarifies, and Bitty nods, trying to make sure he remembers the name. “And he is, to the team. Not to the world at large.”

“And you?” Bitty holds his breath, not entirely sure what he’s asking, or if it’s too soon to be even asking anything at all.

“The team knows.” And when Jack looks at him, Bitty doesn’t have to ask exactly what the team knows. It’s there, writ in Jack’s gaze, and Bitty wants to melt under it. He wants to ask why Jack told them and not him, why he had to wait so long.

But this is Jack, and Bitty knows how hard it is for him to talk sometimes, and he’s just glad they’re talking now.

“And the world?” Bitty asks. “Because if I sign, I can’t go back in the closet. I can’t do that, I’m sorry.”

“I’m ready.”

Bitty kisses him again for that, because if this is where waiting has brought him, he’s okay with moving forward. He’s okay with figuring out where they go from here.

And he’s still got some time before he goes back to Samwell to work on that.

“We should go to bed,” he says, and he’s happy that Jack agrees.

#

On Monday, Bitty starts getting phone calls and notifications of other teams reaching out. The Bruins want to meet with him, and the Maple Leafs ask what he thinks of Canada. Kent Parson reaches out personally with a reminder that they met just a few years before and an invitation to visit Las Vegas and the Aces, all expenses paid.

Bitty sits down at his desk and composes a letter, then asks Chowder to read it to make certain that he’s made complete sense and isn’t about to embarrass himself. He sends to Georgia in email, and gets back a response almost immediately.

On Friday, Bitty sits under the Samwell pennant at Faber, a pen in his shaky hand as Georgia sits next to him. He signs the contract on every line, initials everything that needs initialing. His mother is clapping as the cameras click, capturing every moment as Bitty accepts the offer made by the Falconers and signs for the next season.

He’s still blinking after all the flashes when Jack picks Bitty’s phone up from the table and hands it to Chowder. Jack pulls Bitty to standing, gives him a moment to catch his breath. When Jack smiles, Bitty realizes that he’s being asked a question silently, and Bitty just nods once, takes enough of a moment to ready himself for the dizzying sensation of Jack kissing him right there in Faber, in the place that means so much to both of them. In front of all those cameras.

He tweets the picture Chowder takes, saying _moving to Providence_ and no further explanation. Shitty responds _bout time_ and Johnson sends an image of a giant maroon checkmark and the comment _told you the story had a happy ending_.

Bitty still has no idea what Johnson’s talking about, but it’s okay, because he sort of agrees. The story of his time at Samwell has a perfect ending. He squeezes Jack’s hand as Jack stands quietly next to him, talking to Bitty’s mother about what Bitty will need in the house, and what she doesn’t have to worry about.

The thing is, one story might be over, but the story of Bitty and Jack in Providence, that one’s just beginning. And Bitty can’t wait to see how it turns out.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] not quite the same story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11897292) by [PugglePodfics (Pugglemuggle)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pugglemuggle/pseuds/PugglePodfics), [SoVeryAveragePodfics (SoVeryAverageMe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoVeryAverageMe/pseuds/SoVeryAveragePodfics)




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